The Kind of Love that Gives You a Thrill
by phantomy-cookies
Summary: The kind of love which people do not admit even to themselves! A collection of fluff shots, all deliciously EC.
1. A Night at the Opera

'A Night at the Opera'

"Erik? Are you sure that we won't be seen?"

"Quite sure, my darling. Quite sure."

In spite of his assurances, Christine leaned back against the cushion of her chair, inadvertently attempting to veil herself behind the curtain. Erik sat beside her, silently adoring her for her needless apprehension, but he said nothing. It was more than enough to trust that she wanted to be here with him. It was perfectly hopeless to suppose that she would do so without fear or anxiety.

But it never stopped him from hoping.

"I didn't mean to keep you waiting for so long," she continued regretfully, waving her fan absently before her. "Have we… have we missed anything significant?"

"Hush," he spoke softly, placing a slim white finger to the mouth of his mask. "And no, this is still the first act. Try and be as quiet as possible though, for no matter how well we are hidden from view, we can still be heard."

She nodded in apology, her eyes turning to the majesty and grandeur of the scene before her.

It was a marvelous setting, though the décor was indeed one of the furthest things from her mind. In truth, Christine was feeling rather torn, whether by her desire to make Erik happy, or by the very real understanding of what that would actually require her to do.

Including spending their evenings thus.

Surprisingly though, it was a comfort to be here with him, watching the spectacle before her in the quiet intimacy of his company. She listened to the rich, powerful sounds of the tenor climbing towards her, marveling at the different emotions expressed with each and every chord sounding in her ears. The words themselves were of no consequence, sounding somewhat clichéd and… if it were appropriate to say, uninspired.

Such thoughts, she imagined, were Erik's influence rubbing off on her.

No, what moved her was the loneliness she felt behind that sad lament. The loneliness and the despair. It wound itself into her heart, reminding her of so many memories she had hidden away. So many things she had forgotten. Was it possible that such feelings still existed, even now that she had decided to be with the man she loved? Would she ever forget the pain? The suffering?

Hadn't she already?

A silent tear rolled down her cheek. It was all she could do to relieve the conflicting strains of her heart.

"Perhaps we should leave," he said quietly.

She brushed the tear away with her fingertips, and turned to him with a sad smile. "No," she whispered. "Forgive these tears, my darling. You don't… that is… I want you to understand… I am happy, Erik. I realize it now. Our tragedies are over. I am happy being here with you."

He remained still, but his burning eyes betrayed the emotion flooding through him. "Are you?"

Her only answer was to take his hand in hers.

It was impossible to say whose was trembling more.

"Thank you," she finally spoke after some time had passed. "Thank you for bringing me here, Erik."

"Anything," he replied soberly, pressing his palm against hers. "Anything for you, Christine."

So they sat there, hand-in-hand, swept up in the sweet adulations of their love as they watched the poor wretch of a man continue screaming in the maddening, sweltering heat of the Torture Chamber.


	2. The Best He Ever Had

'The Best He Ever Had'

(Or, The Way to a Man's Heart)

He loved her.

There was no denying it.

If Erik had never been sure before, he was certain of it now.

_Christine_…

The very object of his desires. Of his affections. The one spark of happiness that he could remember throughout his entire existence. How many nights had he lain awake… wrestling with the insatiable desire to possess her? How long had he tortured himself with music, punishing his desires to consume her? To taste of that forbidden flesh?

The idea was maddening.

He'd torn at his skin. He'd cursed himself to hell. But nothing could restrain him. Nothing could ever restrain him.

No. This would be his one indulgence. His one sin.

He had wanted her…

And so he took her.

Without remorse. Or regret.

_I love you, Christine. Truly, this is the best meal I've ever had_.

He sliced off another piece of her thigh, and poured himself another glass of wine.


	3. Broken

_A/N: Love to Chatastic for betaing. Found this update while cleaning out my hotmail inbox. Hope you enjoy!_

* * *

BROKEN

"Do you love me?"

She does not hesitate. "I love you, Erik."

He clasps her hands in his more tightly, though he does not bring her closer. Even in the darkness, she can see the steady stream of tears that trickle down his mask. She is crying as well.

"I once thought that to be true," he remarks sadly, more to himself than to her. "Impossible, perhaps, but then I could always believe in you so implicitly."

She clutches him desperately, wanting him to pull her close. "Please," she cries. "Please believe me, dear. I love you! I will go away with you! I will be everything to you! I give you my word!"

His tone is emotionless. "I have had your word, Christine. Or did you forget?"

She sobs as he says this, but cannot meet his gaze.

They are both in agony.

He wants to leave. He doesn't want to be near her. He could leave her. He could just take the ring he had given her, the ring she had lost so carelessly, and never, ever look back again. All he desires now is drowning his love and his misery in a damaged, unconscious death.

But he simply cannot let go.

"Christine," he says, letting her fingers slide through his ever so slightly. "My heart is broken."

Her cries are now turning into desperate sobs, and she begins to cling to him more fiercely. "Erik…. please…" she whimpers. "My heart is yours! Believe me, oh please believe me!"

He wants to.

It takes everything in his power to resist the urge to bring her against him, to hold her and love her and believe her so implicitly, just as he used to. He could have, once upon a time. He would have lived and breathed only to fulfill her every desire. He would have even killed for her.

He already had.

"I would have given you the world, if you had only let me." He is not even really looking at her, though his glare is trained on her face. "What would you have given me?"

"What do you want?" she gasps, wanting to please him. "Tell me what you want! I will give you whatever you desire!"

His thumbs trace the back of her slim hands. "Do you know what I want?" A pause. "I want to _know, _Christine. Know your heart and your mind. I don't want to deceive myself any longer. You see," he sighs, "lies have corrupted my faith in you. Lies have killed my devotion to you. You have broken me, Christine. I am undone. Are you broken too?"

She moans softly. Her senses are becoming dizzy, and she is pleading desperately to God that he will not abandon her. Her throat tightens, even as her hands do. "Erik," she begs silently. "Don't leave me…"

Miles below, on the Rue Scribe, the Vicomte's body resembles the twisted remains of a dying fawn, lying awkwardly in a forest of marble and gaslights. His insides are strewn about the cold and crushing pavement, his bones have broken through the skin at odd, unsettling angles. She dangles from above, grasping desperately to those cold fingers that once made her cry out in terror.

He, in turn, feels the smooth skin on her fingers, particularly where her ring used to be. He would have relished the sensation, if she hadn't already killed him under the bronze and solemn gaze of Apollo.

They stare into each other's eyes. Both are silent, save for the quiet sounds of her gentle sobbing.

He knows.

And she knows.

She is broken too.


End file.
